


A dove in the cuckoo's nest

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Feels, Castiel in hospital, Conversation, Fluff, Hair, Hair stroking, M/M, Nice Crowley, Season/Series 07, bird metaphors, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, seriously a lot of bird metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6325762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little ficlet set in the hospital at the end of Season 7. Crowley drops by to pay Castiel a visit and discovers he just can't be mad at him for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A dove in the cuckoo's nest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shotgun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgun/gifts).



When Crowley materialises without warning in his hospital room, Castiel looks surprised, but not alarmed. His face rather reflects a kind of guilty expression like Crowley's walked in and caught him doing something he shouldn't be, despite the fact he's merely sitting there cross-legged on the bed like a little kid, staring into the middle distance.

"Meg-"

Crowley shakes his head. "Don't fret, pet." His voice is a warning growl. "Nurse Ratchet is just taking a little nap. I wanted some quality one-on-one with you."

"Hello, Crowley."

So. He remembers. "Hello, pigeon." Crowley regards the broken creature on the bed. Meets his eyes, except those eyes are now at once less and more than they were: unfocused, they seem to peer into his very heart; Crowley suppresses a shiver.

Castiel offers him an uncertain little smile. "The European barn owl's flight is so silent it can't be picked up on sound recording. It barely moves the air around it. It ambushes prey before the prey even realises it's there." Crowley cocks his head, golden eyes narrowed. Castiel continues. "Pigeon. The common name for the European rock dove. Doves are associated with peace, but their flight is so... noisy. It causes so much commotion. Messy." That tense little line appears between his brows.

Crowley chuckles, soft and cynical. "Who ever said that peace was peaceful?" He thinks of wings. Of the frantic beating flutter that heralds the arrival of an angel here on earth. Doves of peace, creating havoc wherever they go.

"Cuckoos..." Castiel frowns a little.

Crowley barks out a short laugh. He sits down in the chair next to the bed, crosses his legs at the ankle, head leaning on one hand. "Go on, flyboy. Tell me about the cuckoos."

"They lay their eggs in the nests of other birds. When the chick hatches, it..." He looks down at his vessel's borrowed hands, turning them over, studying the whorls of fingerprints on the tips of elegant fingers.

"They kick out the real nest owners, eh?" Crowley watches him, considering. His tongue darts across the edges of his teeth, a musing habit. "Survivors, those birdies."

"It's cruel."

"It's necessary." Picking at the hem of his white hospital scrubs, Castiel looks inclined to disagree. Crowley raises an eyebrow. "What's cruel is keeping you cooped up here in the laughing academy."

Castiel looks up sharply, his eyes wide. "Oh no. I stay here. It's where I belong, I've..." He pulls a face. "Made mistakes."

Crowley shakes his head. Watches fascinated as Castiel mirrors the gesture. "You're no cuckoo, little dove. You have people you belong to."

"Meg."

"Huh." A perfunctory grunt. "Does she give you bed baths, hmm, Sparkles?"

He's not sure where that jag of bitterness came from but Castiel just regards him with an expression of mild confusion. "Dean and Sam."

"If you say so."

There's a flurry of unseen feathers, and he's gone. Crowley blinks. A second later and space-time readjusts itself with a shimmer and Crowley flinches in surprise: Castiel is sitting on the floor next to the chair, knees drawn up to his chin, arms wrapped around them. He tilts his head. This time the gesture brings his head to rest against Crowley's leg, just higher than his knee. Crowley's eyebrows rise. There's something expectant thrumming in that gesture. "All that power. Utterly gonzo." He mutters, "I should really break your neck."

"No conflict." Castiel sounds a little offended, but he's not moving. After a moment, he butts his head impatiently against Crowley's knee, like a cat seeking attention. Frowning, Crowley drops a hand, settles it tentatively on the crown of that dark head and Castiel exhales a long sigh that sounds very like relief.

"No conflict," Crowley agrees, marvelling. He ruffles experimental fingers through Castiel's hair. Listens to his breathing slow. "'I hold a beast, an angel, and a madman in me,'" Crowley says, quietly. There's a faint affirmative noise from the angel. A comfortable rearranging against his leg. "'And my enquiry is as to their working, and my problem is their subjugation and victory...'" His hair is soft as feathers between Crowley's fingers. Thick and silky and clean. Castiel makes another noise, somewhere between a deep inhale and a groan but when Crowley peers down at him, he realises. He's asleep. He's snoring. "Stupid reckless sod," Crowley says, soft enough not to wake him. "Fool." His voice is lower than a whisper, not a breath of vitriol left to muster. His fingers carry on stroking through the angel's hair. Carry on for a long time, until outside, through the window, night surrenders to day.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The quote is Dylan Thomas. Cas seems to be rather into poetry at that point and I'm sure Crowley could deliver and then some.


End file.
